An Angel in Misery
by MissFiyerabaMeponineWholock
Summary: Les Mis/Phantom crossover, Eponine crosses paths with the Phantom when he saves her from being sold by her father one fateful night. Can he save her from misery too?
1. Chapter 1

**So this kind of just happened on the bus ride to N.Y.C, I wrote it on my iPod. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I own neither Les Mis or Phantom, alas.**

Erik— or, as he was better known, the Phantom of the Opera walked through the streets of Paris late one night, sticking to the darkness of the shadows. He preferred not to be seen or bothered. He reached the red light district, but did not seek another way to the Opera House. The women here knew better than to approach him; that is, if they even saw him, concealed as he was in shadow. Besides, if they did not know of his identity, the white half-mask that he wore kept most away. No one ever dared approach him. This night, however, would be different.

A man, perhaps of the same intelligence as most in the area, but definitely more desperate and more accustomed to murky shadows, noticed him and approached him, dragging along a struggling young girl. The girl had clearly been beaten rather viciously. The man, however, sustained only a black eye.

"Are you in need of companionship, Monsieur? My daughter here would be more than happy to be of service to you." the man said, grinning. The girl tried to pull away, but her father had a death grip on her arm. The Phantom was disgusted. He may have been a monster (as he seemed to think) and a murderer, but never would he force himself onto a woman; never would he rob a woman of her innocence, much less a child. He knew, though, if he did not do something, what this poor young child would be subjected to.

"How much?" he asked, feigning interest instead of disgust.

The man eyed him for a moment, trying to decide of he was wealthy or not.

"10 francs." he decided.

Erik handed him the money and the man then shoved his daughter toward him. He caught her and tried his best to be gentle, though he was certainly unaccustomed to being such.

"Salaud!" she hissed, though it could not be ascertained whether this was directed at her father or at the man who had just bought her. Erik, though rather amused by this, remained deadpan. He led her away from the area. She struggled to escape from him, hissing profanities at him; but he kept a hold of her, knowing that she would only get herself into more trouble if she ran away.

"Enough of that!" he said, harsher than he'd intended. She fell silent, hearing the thundering power behind his golden voice. He brought her to the entrance to his home under the Paris Opera, in the Rue Scribe. She was confused by this, but still did not speak. It seemed that she had come to terms with what was happening and, instead of being fearful, she seemed completely blank; empty; emotionless; dead inside. In her eyes, however, he could see her fear.

Once inside, her confusion turned to amazement. This showed on her face very briefly before she seemed to remember what was happening and she became stony-faced once more.

"Sit." he commanded, gesturing toward the sofa. She silently obeyed. "I will return in a moment." he said. Then, seeing the life return to her eyes briefly, he added, "I would not recommend trying to run. The traps in place would do more than only hurt you. In other words, if you value your life, stay put."

The young girl, being rather adept in the art of deception, despite being only fourteen, knew that he spoke no lies. His words were a terrifying truth; she did not move.

As she sat there waiting for his return, she contemplated the events that had brought her there. She couldn't really say that she was surprised that it had come to this; she had always seen it coming. Her father, in a bout of drunkenness, had lost a great deal of money and decided that, as a method of regaining the lost money, he could sell the only thing she had left; her body. She had feared this for a very long time; but she would not cry, she decided. No, she would give no one that satisfaction.

The Phantom soon returned with a kit filled with bandages and various ointments and medications. He was almost amused to see that the young woman had not moved in the slightest. He pulled up a chair so that he was sitting directly across from her. She looked at the bag, her confusion showing.

"What...?" she started to ask.

"Relax, I will not harm you unless provoked, nor will I force you into anything."

"Why?"

"'Why' what?"

"Why did you pay for me then? Why d'you care what my father forces me into?"

"No one should be sold." he replied quietly, "No one should be treated as a slave."

She could hear in his tone that this was a personal topic for him, so she did not press on the matter.

"Thank you, M'sieur; but then, why'd you bring me here?"

"You need medical care." he replied as if it were obvious.

"Are you a doctor?"

"Not exactly."

"D'you know what you're doing?"

"Have some faith in me, would you?" he replied, sighing.

"What exactly are you gonna do?"

"Bandage your wounds and pop your dislocated shoulder back into place. Now is that all? Any more questions?" he asked, clearly annoyed.

"Just one."

He sighed,

"Of course there is. Well? What is it?"

"Why do you wear that mask?"

The atmosphere of the room immediately changed.

"Never ask me that again." he said, his voice taking on glacial tones.

"Sorry." she said quietly.

Erik silently set about tending to her wounds, though he soon stopped, seeing the pain it was causing her. He grabbed a bottle of something and poured it into a glass.

"Drink this." he said, handing it to her, "It will help with the pain."

The young girl needed no more convincing than that and downed the glass. It took effect almost immediately and her eyelids drooped. He continued with his work, leaving her shoulder for last. She was mostly unconscious when he popped her shoulder back into place. This woke her up a bit and she weakly tried to slap him, not aware of what she was doing. He caught her wrist and gently placed it back at her side. Her head lolled back as she neared unconsciousness.

He carefully lifted her from the couch. She wrapped her arms around his neck, hardly aware that she was even doing do and he carried her to the Louis-Philippe room. Christine would never use it; she had married Raoul. He laid her down upon the bed. She struggled to remain awake, stubbornly fighting the effects of the medicine.

"Sleep." he said.

"No." she replied.

"And why not?"

"I want to know your name." her words were slurred and only half formed. He could see the child-like curiosity in her half-closed eyes. The poor innocent creature did not deserve the life she had and he could see that already. "Please?" she added as an afterthought. He sighed once again. He had not told his name to any but Christine and the Persian. Even Madame Giry did not know his name.

"People call me the 'Phantom of the Opera' or 'Opera Ghost.' One once called me her Angel of Music."

"'S'not a name."

He chuckled quietly,

"No, I suppose it's not."

"D'you have a name?"

"I used to."

They were both silent for a moment.

"I'm Eponine." she broke the silence.

"Well, Eponine, you really need to sleep now."

"I entirely disagree."

"Of course you do, but just do it anyway."

"Fine..." she mumbled, "G'night... Angel..."


	2. Chapter 2

**Another chapter written whilst on route to New York.**

**Disclaimer: Don't own Les Mis or Phantom.**

Erik felt as if he'd been plunged into ice-cold water. She had called him 'Angel.' Only Christine had ever called him that and yet, the pet-name had fallen so easily, so softly from Eponine's lips.

He watched her for a few moments. She looked rather peaceful and tranquil. Erik assumed this was due to the medicine. What else could it be? Erik quietly left the room, not wanting to wake Eponine. He walked over to his desk and sat down, grabbing some blank staff-paper. He set about composing, knowing music well enough that he did not need his organ to do so; he knew that the notes would not clash. He spent most of the night there, eventually falling asleep there, as he so often did, with his head resting on his arms. It was this position in which Eponine found him the next morning. She could tell that he was exhausted and so, she did not wake him. Laying next to his head on the desk was his white half-mask, but the half of his face that it normally covered by it was hidden by his arms— his very muscular arms. She did not try to take a look for fear of waking him, though she was immensely curious as to what he was hiding.

Looking around the room, she soon discovered the large organ there. This brought to her memories of the inn that her father used to run. There had been a rather old and somewhat out of tune piano there which she and her sister, Azelma, used to play with. They'd never been taught how to play, but they learned quickly enough which notes complimented each other and which notes were unappealing. She remembered how she used to write songs with her sister, never physically writing them down as they did not know how sheet music worked; but simply memorising the words and chords. It had been their favourite passtime; that is, until Azelma died one dreadful winter when Eponine was ten. Azelma, herself, had been only seven years old, taken by the illness that killed so many; pneumonia.

Even years later, Eponine was not over her death. Tears filled Eponine's eyes as she looked upon the organ. As if in a daze, she wandered over to it and sat down on the bench. It had been years since she had last sat at a keyboard. She hadn't even so much as sung a single note since her sister's death, much less compose or play piano. It hadn't seemed right; it had been something that she and her sister had enjoyed together. Now, however, it seemed like something that she needed to do.

Her fingers drifted to the keys and she started to play, her fingers gliding across the organ, creating beautiful music. She didn't think about the chords or the tune, she just played. It didn't even occur to her that her music had woken the Phantom; she scarcely even remembered that he was there or that she was in his home.

The music started off soft and sweet, but as Eponine thought of her sister, it grew to be sorrowful; as she thought of the turn her life had taken since her father had lost the inn, it grew darker. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she played, the tears that she had been holding back for four years; tears for Azelma, tears of frustration, of desolation and desperation. She did not notice when the Phantom moved to stand behind her.

Erik did not interrupt her, he merely listened to her play and he almost pitied her. Almost. He had lost the ability to pity anyone. He knew horrors that most couldn't even fathom and, besides, no one hadd ever taken pity on him. Only when Eponine was crying too hard to continue playing did he let her know he was there.

He placed a hand on her shoulder. She jumped, quickly standing and wiping away her tears. She turned to face him, noting somewhere in her mind that the mask was on his face once again.

"Sorry, M'sieur." she said quickly, her voice shaking, "I shouldn't have... I should've asked... I'm sorry to have woken you..." Not only was her voice shaking, but her whole frame as well.

"It's fine." he assured her. He didn't really know what to say. He wasn't really the comforting sort and he barely knew her and so, he doubted he'd be much of a comfort anyway.

"I... I should prob'ly go..."

Despite not knowing her, this did not seem like something he should let happen; however, he was not about to keep her there against her will. He knew, though, that her father would be upset with her for not returning home the night previous. Whores generally had more than one client in a night; Eponine's father would want more money.

Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew forty francs. He held them out to her,

"Take it."

She shook her head,

"M'sieur, you've already helped so much..."

"Do you want to be beaten again by your father?"

She was quiet for a moment.

"I see your point." she said, taking the money.

Then, surprising them both, she hugged him. It took him a moment to wrap his arms around her in response— the last person to show him any type of affection had been Christine. He couldn't help but note how tiny she was. Eponine hadn't even thought beforehand about what she was doing, it had simply seemed like the right thing to do.

"Thank you, M'sieur... For everything..."

Erik merely nodded in response.

"I'd best show you the way out." he said, releasing her. He did not want her to kill herself in one of his traps. She nodded and followed him back to the Rue Scribe where he then regarded her for a moment, "Be careful." he finally said.

"Always am."

"And forget about me."

"I promise nothing."

"I mean it." his voice was sharper now, perhaps more than necessary. "Forget you ever met me and do not seek me out." With that, he disappeared into the shadows.

Eponine stood there for a few moments, in shock. She had thought, for one fleeting moment, that, perhaps, she had a friend. She left, tears rolling down her cheeks once more.


	3. Chapter 3

**The third and last chapter written on my iPod. From here on out, it'll be a wait for chapters, as, alas, I can not spend every moment of my time writing, no matter how much I'd like to.**

**Disclaimer: As we all know and do not need reminding, I do not own Les Misérables or Phantom of the Opera.**

Four years passed and Eponine did not see the Phantom at all during them. She did not forget him as he had advised her to do; but she now regarded him as a dream and had her doubts as to whether or not he was real, believing him to be a childhood fantasy. She did not fully remember how she had been saved that night so long ago. She had forgotten about the Rue Scribe and could scarcely remember the Phantom's home underground.

She had been forced into prostitution only a year after the Phantom had saved her but no one had come to her rescue the second time. The only reason that she continued was that her father has threatened to harm her brother, Gavroche, if she did not do as told. Eponine couldn't bear to lose another sibling, especially not when there was something she could do about it.

Eponine was in love now, with her best friend, Marius Pontmercy. She had met him two years after the Phantom. Alas and alack, Marius scarcely seemed to notice her of late and he certainly did not know that she loved him, much to her dismay. She found herself unable to tell him for fear of rejection.

The Phantom remained lonely in his home under the Paris Opera House. He continued to compose and run the Opera Populaire, but was still as alone as ever. Strangely, he often thought of Eponine. He wondered if, perhaps, it had been a mistake to tell her to keep away. Maybe he wouldn't be so lonely if he'd allowed her to return as she wished. He couldn't even keep an eye out for her as he did not know where she lived.

One night, he found himself walking the familiar route through the redlight district, concealed, as always, in shadow. He did not wish for the strange looks that came with being seen by others.

Eponine, like her father, had acquired the skill of seeing through shadow and darkness. Thinking him to merely be a shy, first-time customer, she approached him.

"Lonely, M'sieur? I can change that." she said, putting on a coquettish act. Leaning forward and revealing more than a decent amount of her breasts, she flashed him a seductive grin which faded the moment she noticed the white half-mask. Memories came flooding back to her as she stared up at him. He towered over her.

Erik was both shocked and angered to see her there.

"Eponine? What the Hell are you doing here?" his voice was low and dangerous. She drew back, her face becoming void of emotion. She did not provide an answer, but merely turned and started to walk away. He grabbed her arm tightly, his bony fingers digging into her skin. "I asked you a question."

"Oh, I'm sorry. You see, I was under the impression that you were of at least average intelligence." she scowled. "Now let go of me."

"No."

She arched an eyebrow.

"And why not?"

"I will not allow you to ruin yourself."

Eponine laughed coldly,

"Too late for that."

He regarded her for a moment. She had definitely changed since the last time he'd seen her; she was taller, thinner (dangerously so), and much more miserable. He could see it in her eyes; the sorrow and anguish. The innocence that had been there four years ago was gone.

"You may have saved me once, Monsieur, and, believe me, I was and still am grateful, but no one was there to help me the second time. It wasn't my choice, you know. The only other option was to let my father hurt my brother and that was not going to happen. The choice was already made for me. Now, if you'd just let go of me, I need to get back to work."

He still did not let go of her arm.

"You shouldn't have to sell yourself."

"I know I shouldn't have to, but I do. I need the money to give to my father. Now let go. You're hurting me."

"There is more than one way to make money."

"You think I don't know that?" she asked angrily, "Think I haven't tried to get a real job? Look at me. I'm scum. Who would hire me? No one, Monsieur. No one."

He was silent for a moment.

"You're not." he said quietly.

"What?"

"You're not scum."

"I am. I've come to terms with it."

"You're not," he argued, "and I know somewhere that might hire you."

She looked at him in disbelief.

"Where?" she asked slowly.

"Do you sing?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Just answer the question."

"Not in a long time..."

"Sing now."

"What? Why?"

He sighed,

"Just do it." he said, finally relinquishing his hold on her.

Eponine hesitated a moment. It had been so long... She remembered a song that her mother used to sing to her and her sister,

"Il le faut, disait un guerrier. À la belle et tendre Imogine. Il le faut, je suis chevalier et je pars pour la Palestine*." her voice was soft, rather breathy, and very hesitant. She'd clearly never been taught, but she did have potential.

"Come with me, I will write a letter to the managers of the Opera House. They will give you a job." he told her.

"Wait, what?"

"You heard me. That way, you won't have to sell yourself."

"I... I'm no actress."

"Ah, but you are." he said softly, "You are able to act like you aren't disgusted in your... 'customers.' And you'll be at least an average singer after a few lessons."

"I can't afford lessons."

"Did I ask you to pay me?"

"You mean you—"

"Yes, I will teach you."

"And... And I won't have to—" she didn't finish her sentence, but instead looked at some of the men in the area.

"Never again." he replied. Eponine looked like she might cry out of relief.

"Thank you." she whispered. He merely nodded in response and offered her his arm, which she gladly took.

Together, they departed the red light district for the Opera Populaire.

*** It must be, said a warrior. To the beautiful and tender Imogine. It must be, I am a knight and I leave for Palestine.**


End file.
